Heather Cochran - The Return Of Jonah Gray

“Can you tell my fortune?” Kevin asked.

“Well, I could, but I’m off the clock,” I said. “I do see an intriguing stranger in your future.”

“I see one in my present,” he said.

Oh, he was good.

We talked for the next ten minutes, throughout which I managed to keep the conversation relatively light and avoid referring to any Eastern Bloc countries. He was funny, relatively new to the East Bay, and worked as a building contractor, renovations mostly. Martina, meanwhile, had taken the bar stool on my other side and struck up a conversation with the man next to her.

“I understand you’ve already met my meddling friend,” I said, elbowing Martina. She looked over and smiled at Kevin.

“In line,” he said. “Cheers on your promotion, by the way. Marketing crackers, did you say? Got any samples on you? These pretzels are stale.”

“Premium packaged edibles,” Martina said, nodding. “It goes way beyond crackers, my dear. And I don’t. I’m waiting for my next assignment. Oh, this is Carl. Carl, this is Sasha. That’s Kevin.”

“Hey,” Carl said, with a wan nod. He seemed uninterested in any detour in his conversation with Martina. He fidgeted with his key ring. From where I sat, I could see that it sported a Porsche trademark.

“So your friend pitches food. I build things. What do you do?” Kevin finally asked me.

“Besides hang around with barflies?”

“Those weird facts in your head didn’t get there by accident. And it’s a pretty head, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“You know, I got it on special over at the dollar store.”

I meant it as a joke, but he frowned a little, as if trying to gauge whether I was serious. “You’re a little kooky, aren’t you?” he finally asked.

It had taken him all of fourteen minutes to notice. Martina would probably count that as a record.

“I don’t mean that as a bad thing,” he added quickly. “But seriously, where do you work?”

I felt my heart rate rise a little. I wasn’t ready. “You know, the usual. In a building. Inside a cubicle. Behind a desk.”

“So where’s the desk?”

“Not far. Approximately 2.56 miles from here,” I said. “You could walk it, if you needed to. I mean, I didn’t. I drove.”

“2.56 miles, huh?”

“Give or take. I had my reasons for measuring it,” I added, when I saw his frown return. I wanted the smile back.

“And what do you do there, besides sit and look cute?”

“That’s about it,” I told him. “Looking cute accounts for ninety percent of my billable hours. It’s a huge growth industry.”

“No, really.” He was waiting, and at some point, I would have to answer him.

“Truthfully, I work for the government. I’m a civil servant,” I finally said.

Sometimes that would be enough. Some guys would have stopped pressing for details and let me relax. But not Kevin. He was determined. He was focused. In other circumstances, those traits would have been appealing.

“Better than being an uncivil servant,” he said.

“Only when cornered,” I said. “Then I scratch and hiss.”

He laughed. “So who do you civilly serve?” he asked. “We do a lot of government work. Maybe I’ll come visit you. Do you have a card?”

Martina must have overheard him. Suddenly, she was at my elbow. “So, Sasha, Carl was just showing me his shoes. Show Sasha your shoes,” Martina ordered, pulling us both into their conversation.

Carl held out his leg. The black leather of his loafers was shiny and even, as if he’d taken them from the box that morning.

“They’re Prada,” Martina said. “This season.”

“Wow,” I said, though I didn’t trust a man who wore triple-digit shoes. I preferred Kevin’s dusty work boots.

Carl’s shrug belied how much he cared. “You gotta dress the part,” he sniffed.

“And your part is?” I asked.

“I work over at Morgan Chase,” he said.

I knew the investment bank, so I nodded. “What do you do there?”

He paused, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. “Well, I’m temping right now.”

“Martina, maybe you can tell me where your friend works,” Kevin said. “She’s being evasive.”

“Evasive, huh? Isn’t that ironic.” Martina laughed.

“How do you mean?” Kevin asked.

“Sasha just likes to control the flow of information. She likes knowing what’s going to happen,” Martina said. “She’s not the most madcap person. She prefers to be prepared.”

“What, are you a Boy Scout leader or something?” Kevin asked, quite seriously.

“What? No.”

“Isn’t that their motto?”

“Be Prepared?” I asked. “Well, sure. It’s the motto for both the Boy and Girl Scouts and the scout movement in general, which was founded, as you may know, by Robert Baden-Powell, who was known as B.P., bringing us full circle to Be Prepared. But no, I’ve never been a Scout. And Martina, I’ll have you know that I’m just as madcap as anyone else in this place.”

“You’re right. That was incredibly madcap.” Martina rolled her eyes.

Carl pulled out his wallet with a flourish. “I’ll get the next round,” he announced, as if to force the conversation back in his direction. He handed his credit card to the bartender.

As he passed it over, I noticed that it was an Elm Street Optimus card. I knew the brand. Not from personal use, but I knew of it. It was one of those secured credit cards, typically given to folks with major blemishes on their credit reports. From that single glance, I knew that Carl was paying upwards of twenty-five percent interest, probably a penalty for previous financial misdeeds.

I smiled, and not because he had bad credit. I smiled because, at that moment, I probably knew more about Carl-the-temp’s real life than anyone else at the Escape Room. If they were the right details, all you needed were a few.

“Thanks, man,” Kevin said to Carl. “I’ll take another beer.”

“I meant that I’d buy for the ladies,” Carl said.

I watched Kevin’s sweet smile fade.

“Temp work not paying like it used to?” I asked Carl.

Martina put a hand on my arm, but I was irked. He could cover his fancy shoes but not a simple happy-hour beer?

“It’s not like it’s a long-term gig,” Carl said.

Martina turned to me. “Play nice,” she said.

“Why?” I asked. I looked at Carl. “I wouldn’t think a guy in your financial situation would spend like that on shoes.”

Carl stopped smiling. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“No? How’s this? You’re an over-extender. You’re all plans, always with a scheme, but you’re not much for actual work. You drive a fancy car, but I bet you’re behind on your payments. You seek out women with good incomes, because your own money never comes in fast enough. You want everything before you’ve earned it. You saw the Prada shoes, so you got them. You saw Martina sit down and you figured for the cost of a few cheap drinks, maybe you’d get lucky. Besides, if you stay over at her place, the repo man won’t be able to find your beat-up old Porsche. And you’ll give Martina your work number, because you don’t expect to finish out the week there. Then you’ll start the cycle all over again. Another temp job, another bar, another girl.”

Carl had waved to the bartender before I finished speaking. “Give me my card back,” he said, his features furrowed all together.

“Is any of that true?” Martina asked. She unfolded a napkin that had been written over. “Is this your work number?”

“It’s not fucking true,” Carl snapped, right before he got up and stalked out of the bar.

Martina turned back to me. She didn’t look upset. In fact, she was sort of smiling. “It’s not like I was going to end up with a guy who spends more on shoes than I do,” she said.